A Far Cry From Eden
by Sophmoron
Summary: AU. After the death of his parents, Harry Potter is sent to live with his relatives, the Dursleys, who live in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He ends up taking a job at the local pharmacy, run by one misanthropic Severus Snape. HPSS, slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to JKR. I am using them for non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Warnings**: slash (male-male relationship), AU (alternate universe).

Silver Lake was a beautiful area. Greenery abounded, with the accompanying woodland creatures, and the lake always sparkled in the sunlight. The town had a rustic, homey feel to it, the sort of place where everyone knew everyone else and nobody stood on formality. Harry hated it. He missed the city, the hustle and bustle, the convenience, and the sheer anonymity of it all. And more than that, he missed his family, his friends. Hell, he even missed Malfoy, though he told himself it was only for the sex.

When he'd first come here, he'd just felt numb. The sudden death of his parents had shocked him to the core, so much so that he'd had trouble even believing it at first. Then there had been the funeral arrangements, and the relatives, and the condolences from everyone—"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!"—which somehow felt so hollow to him. And, the worst blow, the issue of his guardianship. The Dursleys, his next of kin, were expected to take him in, but they'd kicked up such a fuss over it—"_Look_ at the boy, Vernon, he's a mess. You can't expect me to let _that_ anywhere near my Dudders, can you?"—that all the relatives had argued for a few days over who would be stuck with him, the proverbial hot potato. It would have been rather humiliating, even angering, if he'd been able to care.

Eventually, the Dursleys had agreed to take him in, with much grumbling and complaining (and, most likely, a not-so-secret desire to pilfer some of Harry's inheritance), and he had been packed up and taken back with them shortly after the funeral. Before Harry'd realized it, he'd been squished into the backseat of the Dursley station wagon with Dudley, whose massive bulk extended well into Harry's side of the backseat, on his way to Silver Lake.

---

"Mom, my Game Boy is out of batteries," Dudley whined.

"Mommy's sorry, Dudders," Petunia cooed. "We should have packed more batteries for you. Is there something else you can play with for a few minutes? We're nearly there."

"But I want my _Game Boy_." Dudley was getting agitated.

Harry just stared out the window, ignoring them all as the Dursleys tried unsuccessfully to calm their son down. They'd been going through forest for a good while now, and he was staring at the pattern of trees passing by, looking at them without really seeing them. It was oddly hypnotic.

Suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder, and shook him. He turned, absently, to see Petunia and Dudley staring at him, looking angry, as Vernon glared at him through the rearview mirror.

"What?" He said dumbly.

"Your aunt asked you if you had any batteries, boy," Vernon said, sounding cross. "And while you're living under our roof, you'll give us the respect we deserve, got that? _Your parents_," he managed to convey a world of disdain in those two words, "may have put up with your cheek, but we won't. You'll fall in line, or you'll be sorry."

If Harry had been feeling more himself, he might have been tempted to point out that he wasn't literally under their roof quite yet, but as things were, he just muttered, "Sorry," and looked down.

"Well?" Petunia asked impatiently.

Harry looked at her blankly, and she sighed in exasperation. "A slow one, are you? I should have known. _Batteries_. _Do_._ You_._ Have_._ Any_._ Batteries_?" She spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every syllable as though speaking to a small child, or someone who didn't understand English very well.

"Oh." Harry blinked. "No." The truth was, he did have some almost-new batteries in his Discman, but there was no way in hell he was going to have them pull the car over and search through all his stuff for it just so Dudley could play some video game.

Petunia frowned and turned away, muttering, "Useless."

The arguing and pleading began again, but Harry tuned them out.

---

Barely a quarter of an hour later, Harry dimly registered the "Welcome to Silver Lake" sign they were passing. This was it, then. They were here.

It wasn't much to look at—the trees were a bit sparser, and there were some quaint-looking buildings around, houses and what looked like a few shops, a school, and a church.

Within minutes they were pulling into the driveway of an average-looking two-story house, and Vernon was shutting off the car. They got out and stretched their legs; Harry's had both fallen asleep during the long car ride, and he sat for a minute, waiting for the feeling to come back before he'd feel confident enough to try walking on them.

"Stop dawdling and unload your things, boy," Vernon called from the door of the house. He, Petunia, and Dudley were already heading inside.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said dully, and stood up, stumbling a bit as he made his way to the trunk. He opened it, pulled out a likely-looking bag, and brought it to the house.

Vernon was waiting for him in the foyer. "We're giving you Dudley's second bedroom," he said, looking much put-upon by the imposition. "It's up the stairs, first door on the left. Lock the car when you're done."

He walked off before Harry could reply.

Hoisting the bag higher on his shoulder, Harry went up the stairs and pushed upon the first door on the left, which stood slightly ajar.

The room was small, and broken toys littered the floor. There was a small bed, though it wasn't made up, a dresser with some nasty scratches across the top, and a rickety-looking desk in the corner, with what looked like a laptop computer on it. A thin layer of dust covered nearly everything in the room, and it smelled faintly musty.

Harry set the bag down on the floor, and went back for the rest. He'd clean later, if he felt like it, and ask Petunia for some sheets for the bed.

He thought briefly of his old room back home, not much bigger than this one but much nicer, the furniture almost new-looking and a soft rug underfoot and his own computer. And his soccer trophies set out on the dresser, next to the knick-knacks his father always brought back for him from his business trips-

He cut the thought off before it could go any farther. Carefully thinking of nothing at all, he finished bringing his things up. He had to cram all the junk into one corner of the room to fit all his stuff inside, and his arms were aching by the time he finished carrying it all up.

Tired from the trip and the unloading and the Dursleys and the sheer dull greyness of his life, he collapsed on the mattress and dozed off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to JKR. I am using them for non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Warnings**: slash (male-male relationship), AU (alternate universe).

* * *

Harry woke a few hours later, feeling irritable and not refreshed at all. Great. 

The smell of something cooking wafted up from down below, and he realized belatedly that he was hungry. Starving, in fact.

For a few minutes, he lay in bed debating between lying there and going hungry or getting up and getting food, which would also involve interacting with the Dursleys and dealing with things he didn't really want to be bothered with at the moment. Hunger won out, and he forced himself up into a sitting position and then to a stand, feeling groggy and lightheaded and regretting his decision.

As he made his way out of the room and to the stairwell, he caught the sound of voices. From the sound of things, the Dursleys had sat down to dinner without him. He couldn't say he was overly surprised. He wondered if they'd even bothered to set a place for him.

Approaching the dining room, he saw that they hadn't, and sighed internally. Well then.

He didn't want to deal with this, didn't want to deal with them. Didn't want to take their shit or see their ugly faces or be in this goddamn house at all. But he'd already come all the way down here, and he was hungry, and what did it matter anyway?

He walked in, and sat down in the one empty chair.

"Well!" Petunia looked affronted. "You don't have any manners at all, do you, child? Barging in like a hoodlum, without even a proper greeting for us."

So it was well-mannered to not invite a member of the household to dinner, and then make him feel unwelcome when he came anyway? Harry's irritation increased, and some of his irritation must have shown on his face, because Uncle Vernon took that as a cue to concur with Petunia.

"The consequence of a bad upbringing, no doubt," he said knowledgeably, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork and shoving it in his mouth. As he chewed the food, he made an impatient gesture, then swallowed. Harry kept his face carefully neutral, though he very much wanted to punch the smug expression off of Vernon's face.

"Well? What are you waiting for, boy? Apologize!" He banged his fork on the table to punctuate the command, setting it shaking and almost creating a disaster as his glass wobbled dangerously.

"I'm sorry," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"And?" Petunia looked at him expectantly.

"Good evening." If they were expecting more than that…

Vernon waved his hand imperiously, his mouth full of chicken and rice. Bastard.

"May I _dine_ with you?" This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

Petunia frowned. "Very well. Go fetch yourself a plate and drink from the kitchen." She looked at him as though he ought to thank her for her generous concession. Fat chance.

He was _this_ close to slamming his chair back and storming into the kitchen, but he knew when not to push his luck. He stood tamely, and got himself a plate and a glass of milk from the kitchen, his actions stiff with forced politeness.

Returning to his seat, he sat down—the flatware making the barest _clink_ as he set it down with deliberate lightness—and began to serve himself with precise movements.

The Dursleys seemed to have returned to their policy of ignoring him, which he was absurdly grateful for. He was on edge right now, feeling sharp and raw, and he didn't think he could take much more from them without exploding.

He began to eat, though his appetite had faded since he'd sat down with the Dursleys. Funny, that. Not really tasting the food, he chewed and swallowed mechanically, just wanting to be finished with it so he could go back up to his room and go back to bed. The last thing he wanted right now was a lecture on ungratefulness and wastefulness for not finishing his plate.

Hearing Uncle Vernon clear his throat, Harry looked up. Vernon glared at him, and nodded towards Petunia. Harry just stared at him dumbly, not understanding. Turning red with rage, Vernon nodded again. Harry turned to look at Petunia, who was occupied with serving Dudley another plate of food (Harry was guessing it was at least his third, if not his fourth). He turned back to Vernon, who was now purple and looked about to explode.

The tension continued to build, the two of them staring at each other, until Vernon brought his fork down to the table again with a crash. He'd managed to pick the worst possible time, and not only did his glass fall over and spill its remaining contents (which, thankfully, weren't enough to spread very far), but Petunia, having been jolted by the table and surprised by the sudden noise, spilled hot chicken and rice all over Dudley, who promptly began screaming. If Harry had been in a better mood, it would have been side-splittingly funny.

Just feeling tired and exasperated now, he slipped out amidst the melee. This wasn't a family, it was a freaking three-ring circus!

* * *

Harry was lying in bed again when Vernon came in to yell at him, face and neck all red and swelled up, and puffing a bit from having just climbed the stairs.

Harry had really just wanted to continue lying there staring at the ceiling, but he'd made a monumental effort and turned to face the door when he'd heard Vernon pushing it open. Well, slamming it open, more like—the door had flown open so hard that it had left a mark on the wall where the doorknob hit, then bounced back, then rebounded back towards the wall when it collided with Vernon's massive body.

He stomped over, coming to a stop a couple feet away from Harry's bed.

"Well, boy?" He demanded. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered, not looking—or feeling, for that matter—very contrite. It hadn't really been his fault, after all, and all he wanted right now was for Uncle Vernon to go away and leave him in peace.

Vernon didn't look at all satisfied with that. "Oh, you're not sorry now, boy," he growled, "but you _will_ be." He took a breath, visibly calming himself. "You'll go downstairs and clean up the mess you made, and starting tomorrow, your aunt will be giving you a list of chores to do. You'll earn your keep for once, and you'll learn some respect. We won't be soft on you, boy, so you'd better start shaping up."

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. It shook the whole room, and a few things fell off the pile of junk in the corner, landing on one of Harry's bags.

He didn't move to pick them up, or to start unpacking or trying to make the room more habitable, just turned onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, the patterns of the chipped paint occupying his vision until the light faded and he was staring into nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to JKR. I am using them for non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Warnings**: slash (male-male relationship), AU (alternate universe).

* * *

Harry was awoken the next morning by the knocking at his door. He tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but then it came again, a bit louder. Before he had time to do more than roll over and groan, Uncle Vernon was pushing the door open and poking his head inside.

"Are you deaf, boy?" he whispered hoarsely. "Get up and get downstairs, your aunt needs you."

Harry reluctantly pushed himself up into a sitting position, dizzy with vertigo. Apparently satisfied with that effort, Vernon left, with a last stern glare over his shoulder before he closed the door.

Though he wanted nothing more than to lie back down again, Harry forced himself to his feet and, after a momentary pause to get his bearings, headed for the door. He was still wearing the clothes he'd put on yesterday morning, and his cheek was sore where his glasses had been digging into it all night. He was sure he looked like a mess, but he didn't really care.

He found Aunt Petunia in the kitchen, making breakfast. She pointed him to a piece of paper posted to the refrigerator.

"Your uncle asked me to make you up a list of chores," she said. "He thinks he can teach you obedience and discipline, though I have my doubts." She paused, flicking her eyes to the stove to be sure the sausages weren't burning, and continued. "You'll start on that after breakfast. There's cereal in the cupboard, and milk and orange juice in the fridge. Glasses and bowls are above the sink."

Harry trudged over to the cabinet and pulled out a bowl. He wasn't really hungry, but he knew he'd need at least _some_ energy to get through the day. He poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and a glass of orange juice and took them out to the dining table. The quiet sounds of Petunia working in the kitchen were a welcome change from the cacophony of the night before.

He ate absently, staring off into space, not really thinking about anything. When he finished, it took him a minute to realize that his spoon was scraping the bottom of an empty bowl. Picking up the empty dishes, he brought them to the sink, then went to take a look at the list of chores Petunia had written out for him.

It was written in a tight but feminine cursive, and it read:

_Do laundry_

_Clean windows_

_Wash dishes_

_Dust_

_Mow lawn_

Well, crap. This was going to be harder than he'd thought.

He'd had chores before, of course. Every kid did. But they'd been more along the lines of, "Make your bed in the morning!" and "Clean your room!" with the occasional "Wash the dishes!" He had a general idea of how to dust and clean windows and the like, but he had no idea how to do laundry. Weren't there different settings for different kinds of clothes and stuff?

He was going to have to ask Aunt Petunia for help, and he could only imagine how well _that_ would go over. But there was nothing for it—whatever she said, it couldn't possibly be as bad as what would happen if he messed up and turned Uncle Vernon's socks pink or some such.

He plucked the note off the refrigerator, and approached Petunia as she was putting bread in the toaster.

"Aunt Petunia?"

She started, then turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Was there something you needed?"

"It's- it's the chores," he said, looking down at the sheet in his hand.

"Now don't you complain, boy. I went easy on you today, gave you plenty of time to unpack or lay about or whatever strikes your fancy. You should thank me." She uncrossed her arms mid-speech and began punctuating her remarks with sweeping gestures. Harry was unfazed.

"I don't know how to do them," he persisted. "I need you to show me what to do."

"What?" She looked half shocked, half outraged. "You're telling me you don't know how to do _simple_ chores like these?"

Harry was pretty sure Dudley had no idea how to do any of them either, but wisely remained silent on that count. He tuned out the subsequent tirade on "spoiled boys who don't lift a finger to help out around the house!" (again, not mentioning Dudley, though he was mildly tempted to do so at several points), nodding at appropriate points and making a token effort to look attentive so that she would shut up sooner. He gave up following her across the room as she rushed back and forth preparing the various parts of the breakfast and just stood by one of the counters, turning his head at the proper times.

She ran out of steam soon enough, and told him to come back for instruction after Vernon had had his breakfast, with an admonishment to shower and get changed beforehand.

He trudged back upstairs and scrounged for toiletries and clothes in his unpacked bags. He didn't know what was where—his things had mainly been packed by well-meaning relatives with completely alien systems of organization—and had to go by trial and error, going through about half the bags in the room before he found what he needed.

He made his way to the bathroom, where he took an embarrassingly long time figuring out how to work the Dursleys' shower. When he was finished, he dried off and got dressed, squishing over the other towels on the rack to make room for his.

As he exited the bathroom, he heard quiet voices coming from downstairs; Vernon having his breakfast, no doubt. He didn't feel like unpacking, so he just sat around in his room until he heard the sound of the front door slamming and a car taking off.

He sat there a few minutes more, as long as he thought he could get away with, then grudgingly pushed himself to his feet and went downstairs for his first lesson in cleaning from Petunia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to JKR. I am using them for non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Warnings**: slash (male-male relationship), AU (alternate universe).

* * *

Petunia showed him how to properly clean the windows, then sent him upstairs to start on those first. All except Dudley's room, because "Little Dudders needs his beauty sleep." Harry didn't think there was any amount of sleep in the _world_ that would make _Dudley_ look any better. A diet, maybe, or plastic surgery. Not sleep.

He took the supplies and went upstairs, starting at the master bedroom at the end of the hallway and making his way back towards the stairs. It wasn't hard work, and normally, he would have finished it within a few minutes, but it was taking him curiously long to finish even one room. Every few minutes, he'd find he'd drifted off again, and he'd put a token effort towards cleaning until he spaced out again shortly after.

Petunia didn't come to check his progress at all, but she saw him coming down the stairs after he'd finished the upstairs. It was a long while after he should have been done, and she was decidedly not pleased.

"Should have known you wouldn't be a proper worker," she said, shaking her head. "Probably fooling around in your room instead of doing your chores, or playing around with _our_ things."

Her eyes narrowed. "Empty your pockets for me, boy," she commanded, suspicious.

Harry showed her his empty pockets, and she harrumphed, looking as though she was sure he was trying to hide something for her, and she'd have none of it. "I'll keep an eye on you while you're down here, so don't you try anything," she warned, then turned and went back into the kitchen.

It went a bit faster with Petunia's supervision, though the frequent chastisements took up some of the time that he saved by having someone else to get his attention when he'd drifted off.

It was in the den that the real trouble happened: he'd walked in there to do the windows and his eyes had fallen on the computer, a new, state-of-the-art model that nevertheless looked like it had gotten a bit of wear already. For the first time since _it_ had happened, he felt a spark of excitement go through him. This was something familiar, a connection to his old life, to his friends. He could chat with them again, and it would almost be like normal. He walked over and booted it up.

There was no password, thankfully, but when he connected to the Net—no broadband available in a remote area like this, he supposed, or he was sure the Dursleys would have purchased it for Dudley's use—the loud squawks of the modem alerted Petunia and she came running, her face white with rage.

"What are you doing?" she screeched, coming to a stop just before him. Not giving him time to reply, she launched into a tirade.

"How _dare_ you! Do you know how much we have to pay for this service? What was going through your head, using other people's things without permission? You're a little heathen, that's what you are, a _heathen_!"

She continued in that vein for a while, insulting him, his brain capacity, his manners, and even his parents and _their_ brain capacity, manners, and child-rearing abilities. When she mentioned his parents, he got a sick sort of feeling in his stomach and worked harder on blocking her out.

Satisfied at last, she left, with an admonishment not to touch anything else if he wanted to keep his hands. He got back to work, telling himself he hadn't really wanted to talk to Ron and Hermione anyway. What did he have to say to them, after all? "Hey, guys, I'm having a great time here doing chores and trying not to think about Mom and Dad and all of you"? Pathetic, that's what it was. His life was fucking pathetic.

* * *

After the windows were done, Petunia set him dusting. The same routine, but with slightly different motions. Petunia, thankfully, had things to take care of upstairs at the same time he was there, though she still grumbled about having to go out of her way to supervise him.

It was well in the afternoon before he was finished with the dusting, and he was just starting on the dishes when it became clear from the ruckus going on above him that Dudley had woken up. Petunia bustled into the kitchen and began cooking breakfast (lunch now, really) for him, and she'd just about finished when he came lumbering down the stairs, demanding food.

As she was putting the finishing touches on the meal, Petunia sent Harry upstairs to collect the laundry, reminding him to separate the darks and the whites. He dried his hands off and headed upstairs, thankfully missing Dudley, who had already made his way to the dining room to await his breakfast.

Harry stopped in the master bedroom first, pulling out the hampers that were neatly stowed away in the closet, a few days' worth of clothes already sorted between them. He went to his own room next, adding his scant offering, then to Dudley's.

Holy crap. It looked like a tornado had hit the room, leaving objects strewn all over the floor and any available surface in its wake. There was a particular prevalence of empty candy wrappers.

Harry picked the disgusting-looking used clothing out of the mess, nose wrinkling at the stench, and got out of there as quickly as he could. There were some tasks one couldn't afford to linger over; clearing toxic waste, for example, or getting things out of Dudley's room. They were roughly the same thing.

Petunia took a break from sitting and cooing at her "little Duddykins" to show Harry how to operate the washer. It was surprisingly simple, and he was soon back washing dishes in the kitchen as it chugged away.

When he went to move the clothing to the dryer, however, he couldn't remember any of Petunia's instructions. Which setting did it go on, and how long? And was he supposed to put one of those little sheets in, or did they only go in which certain kinds of clothes?

Petunia explained it to him again, looking as though she'd about reached the limit of her tolerance for dealing with him, and then sent him up to his room, telling him she'd changed her mind about having him mow the lawn—she didn't think he could be trusted to handle the mower properly. He should have been insulted, but he found he didn't really care. It was one thing less to worry about, anyway.

The second evening wasn't much different from the first; when Vernon got home from work, there was another lecture about his "attitude problem," complete with threats to "shape up or be kicked out! This is no house for delinquents, boy!" Harry pretended to pay attention and escaped up to his room when it was over.

Nobody came to call him for dinner, and he didn't go down to check. He wasn't hungry, and he was sick of dealing with the Dursleys. He was sick of everything, sick of life, and he just wanted everything to go away. He shut his eyes and tried to pretend he didn't exist.


End file.
